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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587345">...and all the other colors</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfentruthed/pseuds/elfentruthed'>elfentruthed</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>No Use Crying [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>...............................2!, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Feelings Realization, Fluff, M/M, Season 2 Era, keep that in mind.... perhaps don't get too attached to the fluff, theres one part where martin is being nice but is a bitch about it and i love him so much</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:00:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,669</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27587345</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfentruthed/pseuds/elfentruthed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Suddenly he was aware of the chatter of the cafe around him, the bright light of the sun filtering through the windows and onto the table, the sensation of the sandwich wrapper he had been absentmindedly picking at without feeling for God knows how long. There was a bite taken out of the sandwich on top, and although the distant memory of the taste of tomato lingering in his mouth suggested that he was indeed the one that had taken that bite, Jon did not remember doing so.</i><br/>  <i>He looked up, and sitting on the opposite side of the table from him was Martin. The rest of reality seemed to wash in all at once upon seeing his face - that’s right, Jon had agreed to go with him to the cafe right after having listened to Gertrude’s tape. </i><br/>  <i>And Martin’s expression was one of concern, a sight that lately seemed more and more like a permanent fixture on his face. At least when Jon was around.</i></p>
<p>An instance of Jon struggling to accept kindness as anything other than sinister as he copes through the trauma of the Prentiss incident. He might realize a few things about himself... and definitely realizes a lot about Martin.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>No Use Crying [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2016245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>155</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>...and all the other colors</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>You don't necessarily have to have read the heart goes nine to understand this work, though there are a few references to it that might be best enjoyed if you've already read part 1! I've been told it's good... WINK!<br/>Content warning for some description of blood, but I try not to get too graphic. Just a little heads up. Also, spoilers through about episode 53, but should be safe if you've listened to that point!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p><span>This crippled reality of tangible fantasies</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>Can't be, can't be, can't be</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>Our walls breathe, to a heartbeat</span><span><br/>
</span> <span>Are you a messenger, or the killer at my door?</span></p>
  <p>
    <span>-- ...</span>
    <em>
      <span>And All The Other Colors</span>
    </em>
    <span>, 10 Years</span>
  </p>
</blockquote><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“-lright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span> Martin’s voice cut through as if it were coming out from a deep body of water, but sounded so distant that Jon barely noticed it. It reached his ears but could not get past the crowd of thoughts that pushed and shoved to occupy Jon’s mind. The voice was so weak, and there were so, so many worries and fears that were vying for his attention.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps it too was once an archivist.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>What could that mean? What could that possibly mean? </span>
  <em>
    <span>“Other reasons” for a crusade</span>
  </em>
  <span>… What did Gertrude know about this job, about the institute, that Jon was unaware of? He had already expressed his initial thought, this idea that the archivist was some… pre-determined tragic destiny, endlessly cycling through helpless people too stupid to notice the mistake of accepting the position? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>No, that wasn’t fair. Gertrude wasn’t stupid, despite Jon’s initial impression of her. Perhaps she had some plan since the beginning, knew from the start that something was off and took the role of archivist for the sole purpose of digging deeper. Maybe she had found out. Maybe that’s why she was dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But the disorganization of the archives under her management spoke to the ridiculousness of that thought. Didn’t it? Or rather… did it speak to a level of cunning that Jon had never before considered? He had already asked himself how someone could work in that position as long as Gertrude had and leave the archives in a state of disarray so abysmal that even his amateur eye could note how awful it was. It was only just now that he began to wonder if a more professional eye would have noticed the possibility that it was disorganized to such a degree that the only explanation was that Gertrude intended to confound her successor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He’d never know now. But he did begin to wonder if he needed to work a little harder to try to look past the mask of innocence and incompetence to see the deep layers of manipulation lying underneath-</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The vibration of a </span>
  <em>
    <span>tap tap tap</span>
  </em>
  <span> on the table a few centimeters from Jon’s fingers broke through the sea of thoughts and snapped his mind back into his body so quickly that he felt disoriented.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Suddenly he was aware of the chatter of the cafe around him, the bright light of the sun filtering through the windows and onto the table, the sensation of the sandwich wrapper he had been absentmindedly picking at without feeling for God knows how long. There was a bite taken out of the sandwich on top, and although the distant memory of the taste of tomato lingering in his mouth suggested that he was indeed the one that had taken that bite, Jon did not remember doing so. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He looked up, and sitting on the opposite side of the table from him was Martin. The rest of reality seemed to wash in all at once upon seeing his face - that’s right, Jon had agreed to go with him to the cafe right after having listened to Gertrude’s tape. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And Martin’s expression was one of concern, a sight that lately seemed more and more like a permanent fixture on his face. At least when Jon was around.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sorry,” Martin said reflexively. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As if Jon’s attention was a soft but sudden blow and his natural instinct was to flail and push it away. Jon felt himself internally cringe in response, but the feeling did not spread to his own expression. At least he hoped not.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin was silent for a moment, as if waiting for an “it’s alright” - </span>
  <em>
    <span>it was, at least Jon thought it was, but the words wouldn’t come out -</span>
  </em>
  <span> but then spoke again. “Is everything okay? You seem…” He tapped his fingers in thought, and almost immediately drew his hand back once he realized how close it still was to Jon’s. Jon could have sworn he noticed his face turn ever so slightly red, but perhaps that was a trick of the light as a wave of clouds passed by outside and left the sun dim enough that the incandescent light was able to take over.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Preoccupied?” Jon finished for him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yes…” Jon echoed, looking back down at his sandwich. What had he even ordered? Had he been so lost in thought as to order his own lunch in a haze of amnesia? </span>
  <em>
    <span>Do I even like tomato…?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon?” Martin’s voice kept him pulled in.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon sighed. “Sorry,” he said, breathy, turning his head back up. “I’ve… I’ve just been thinking.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He dreaded Martin’s inevitable response asking what he has been thinking about. He didn’t really have an answer other than the truth, and the truth wasn’t something he wanted to share. He felt himself already begin building up his defenses, his nerves prickling with the mental exertion of the tired task.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin smiled, an act so subtle that Jon would not have noticed if not for him having dimples so pronounced that even the softest of movements had them making a shy appearance. It was a trait so charming that it was contagious, sometimes to Jon’s annoyance; even now it reached out across the distance between them and hooked onto Jon’s heartstrings, pulling them and tugging at his own face to lift the corners of his mouth in return. It wouldn’t be visible like Martin’s expression, not with his lean cheeks that barely showed so much as a dent with even the rarest of wide grins. But he still felt it in his face. In his chest. In the walls that came immediately crashing down.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin spoke before he had the chance to think about preparing to get back on the defensive. “Rough statement?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon blinked. A simple yes or no question... He was just leaving it at that? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Y-yes.” Jon could manage that much at least. The relief of being able to tell the truth without delving into his personal fears washed over him like a cool breeze.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin nodded and quickly took a sip from his drink. “Well,” he began as he set the cup back onto the table, “maybe you can take it a little easy the rest of the day? I-I mean… not that I have any kind of um… any kind of authority to tell you to take a break, or anything like that, but i-it’s just…” He stalled.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon watched him, his gaze unbroken.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin cracked almost immediately and averted his own gaze, although it was pretty obvious that this wasn’t meant as any kind of standoff. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, as if the motion would stimulate a sleepy thought in his brain. Several wavy locks were knocked completely out of place as a result of the simple act.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s just that… We’ve all been through a lot lately, you know? Or I mean, at least, not that long ago. With Jane and everything, it’s just like…” He scowled. “It’s kinda hell, isn’t it? I mean, what kind of archiving job puts you at risk of being killed by some freaky… worm… woman.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon scoffed just as Martin’s train of thought was tapering off. “This supposed to be some roundabout way of asking me for some time off?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“No!” Martin replied, almost too loudly, but still within the realm of acceptable for a busy cafe. “No, Jon, it’s just… All </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>stuff happened, and now best I can tell the injuries to your face and arms are </span>
  <em>
    <span>just </span>
  </em>
  <span>healing over, I’m not entirely sure if you’re still going to physical therapy - not that it’s my business!”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon’s lip twitched. “No, it isn’t.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The exercises had been excruciating, at times. That wasn’t a bad thing, he knew it was just part of the healing process, but between that and his mental exhaustion, plus finding the time to go to appointments between work and his own </span>
  <em>
    <span>private investigations</span>
  </em>
  <span>… Well, he got around fine enough with the help of a cane. The rest of recovery could come later. Eventually.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had hoped no one else would really notice the decreasing frequency and eventual cessation of him leaving early a few days a week for his physical therapy sessions. But nothing got past the careful watch of someone with enough reason to care to look. Now the question was… </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span> would Martin care to look?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin continued. “I just mean like… Look, if just one statement today has you this distant and distracted, maybe it would be better if you put statements aside for the rest of the day? Do some recordkeeping or file sorting, or something. Give yourself a break? The statements will still be there tomorrow.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“They will be,” Jon replied, resigned. </span>
  <em>
    <span>They’ll be there tomorrow. And the next day. And the next day. And the next. Waiting to drain me of all the mental and emotional toil I’m worth until I die a shriveled husk at my desk. Or until I’m shot.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m worried about you, Jon.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon watched Martin a moment longer before turning his attention back to the still mostly-uneaten sandwich. Just before he had looked away, he had noted an expression on Martin’s face that could maybe best be described as “lighthearted pity.” Something that managed to be a half-smile and half-frown at the same time, on the verge of both tears and laughter. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I’m worried about you</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it said, accompanying the part said aloud, but leaving the second half silent-- </span>
  <em>
    <span>but I don’t want you to worry about me worrying about you.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was an expression that had become all too familiar, lately. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon noticed Martin wearing that expression almost constantly ever since the Prentiss attack, but there were of course a few instances of note. Like when Martin caught him walking through the entrance to the archives a mere week after the attack, the expression accompanied by a gentle but firm guidance - bordering on a comical shove - back out of the door with a demand to go home and rest. Or when he gifted - if gift could ever really be the right word - the jar of ashes to Jon in an attempt to ease his mind. That time the expression said </span>
  <em>
    <span>this is weird, but I care about your mental wellbeing more than the generally harmless weirdness of this.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then most recently, when Jon tried (and catastrophically failed) to sneak out of his office and past Martin to get to A&amp;E after having been stabbed by that Michael creature.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would almost be funny how poorly he did trying to sneak out like that, if Jon hadn’t felt so embarrassed and terrified and </span>
  <em>
    <span>guilty</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Maybe one day in the not-near future he would find it funny, though he had his doubts. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wound had bled, and bled, and he had hoped it would slow down to a point where he could properly clean up but it just kept </span>
  <em>
    <span>going</span>
  </em>
  <span> and he was starting to feel woozy and he needed </span>
  <em>
    <span>help</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But who could he trust? His gut had been telling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>no one</span>
  </em>
  <span> for some time, so he knew he was left to try to sneak past everyone and try to find some way out and some way to medical attention. He would have to figure it out as he went.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had managed to stumble across his office with no small amount of assistance from the cane that was luckily within arm’s length of his desk. He cracked the door open slowly, as quietly as the old tired hinges would allow, which was to say not quietly at all. He just needed to peek out of the door to see if anyone was around. But the loud and ear-piercingly high-pitched groan of the door protesting the movement had Martin, only a dozen paces away, immediately looking up towards the door. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon closed the door again, hoping and praying that the act was nonchalant enough that Martin would pay no mind and leave the area in a few moments. His prayers were answered by a sudden series of scrapes and thuds of a chair moving back quickly and toppling over, accompanied by a muffled “Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>God</span>
  </em>
  <span>!” Jon wearily looked at the closed door and made immediate note of the bloody palmprint that no doubt wrapped to the outer side of the door, marking where he had gripped the door to brace himself as he peered out the other side. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Great</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stepped back once, twice, feeling increasingly ill. Right on cue the door swung open and a flustered-looking Martin crossed the space between them in practically a single stride.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Jesus</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jon!” he exclaimed. “What happened? Are you alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I’m fine,” Jon lied.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Liar</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Martin confirmed. He grabbed Jon’s shoulder and gently pushed him back towards his desk. “The gall it takes to have your hand almost up to your elbow plus a quarter of your shirt smeared in blood and then tell me you’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, really! Christ.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Marti-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sit </span>
  <em>
    <span>down</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Jonathan.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Any blood that might have drained from his face came rushing back all at once as Martin pushed just a little firmer to make Jon sit down. The extra effort wasn’t necessary; the use of a full first name as if he was a disappointed parent scolding a child that just broke an expensive vase and lied about it caught Jon so off-guard that he felt weak in the knees. Jon stared up at Martin, wide-eyed, as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay.” Martin’s voice was more even now. “What happened?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I uh....” Jon struggled to find words as he came to grips with this sternness that seemed so out-of-character but simultaneously so… right. “I… accidentally stabbed myself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You… stabbed yourself.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon nodded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay… How?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“With…” Jon looked away, desperately scrambling for a reasonable lie. “With a…” What was something sharp he might have nearby? “....a bread knife.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Shit.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You wh-? Why would you have a-” Martin brought his hand to his face to lift his glasses and pinch between his eyes. “You know what? I’ll get you to tell me later.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon tensed his hand, forgetting that it was gripping the fresh wound. He winced in pain from the sudden pressure. “Martin, I’m se-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I said-” Martin started out firm again, but cut himself off. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. “We’ll worry about it later, Jon. Let me see.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He stepped forward, one hand slightly extended and asking permission to come closer. Jon continued to stare up helplessly. As he felt the blood drain from his face once more, though, he knew it was either this or… or he didn’t know what. He carefully pulled his hand away, wincing from the pain of the mix of dried and semi-dry and wet blood sticking and tugging at the tender skin.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin leaned closer, and Jon turned his head away. He didn’t want to see his reaction.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright,” Martin said calmly after a moment. “Alright. Let me go get a first aid kit to get this cleaned up and wrapped. Then I’m getting you to A&amp;E. It’s hard to tell right now but I think it needs stitches.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Martin…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Please, Jon.” He sounded tired. “Don’t… don’t protest. You need to see a doctor, and you should have someone help you get there. Okay?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon nodded. “I know, I know. Just… Thank you.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And then </span>
  <em>
    <span>there </span>
  </em>
  <span>was that expression. That lighthearted pity, in response to Jon’s gratitude, his hesitant half-trust. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We went through hell not that long ago,” Martin replied. “I think you deserve to have someone looking out for you, to help make sure it doesn’t happen again too soon. Or at all, ideally, but I mean…” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin faltered. “I… I could be that person, if you’d let me.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon looked down at the ground. He remained silent as he watched Martin’s feet turn around and walk towards the door, carrying him on his search for a first aid kit.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I know,” he finally whispered once Martin had left the room. His chest ached.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>***</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin’s voice was again distant. It was drowned out by a sea of thoughts as it was before, but this time the sea was composed of gallons upon gallons upon gallons of thoughts of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Martin</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why</span>
  </em>
  <span> did he pity Jon, and why did he feel the need to be so gentle with that pity? Why couldn’t it be angry, or stern, or disappointed, or dismissive with that pity? These were emotions Jon understood, approaches to pity that he had grown familiar with his entire life. But instead Martin was soft, and he was kind. He did not roughly tear Jon’s hand from a fresh injury and slap a bandage on top before tossing him into a cab to A&amp;E. Rather he waited for Jon to show him, he asked Jon to lift his own shirt as far as he was comfortable for proper cleaning, he paused and pulled back when Jon gasped in pain, he walked with Jon to the tube station and sat next to him and waited as he got patched up and made sure he got home safely and made sure there wasn’t anything he needed so he could just rest for the rest of the day and he worried and he </span>
  <em>
    <span>cared. </span>
  </em>
  <span>He cared so much.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even after Jon had been nothing but callous and prickly towards him for the first few months they knew each other. Even through the paranoia and mistrust he was experiencing now. That mistrust was fighting itself, tearing into two, pulled on one end by Martin’s kindness expecting nothing in return and on the other by not knowing </span>
  <em>
    <span>how </span>
  </em>
  <span>Martin could possibly act so kindly towards Jon despite the way he acted for so long. There had to be a reason.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jooooooon.” A table vibrated a thousand lightyears below Jon’s fingertips.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>I think you’re good on that front. </span>
  </em>
  <span>That’s what Martin had said when Jon had drunkenly lamented his obvious inability to channel something resembling “charm.” Oh yes, Jon had been clear enough of mind to both notice and remember that little line. And again, </span>
  <em>
    <span>why?</span>
  </em>
  <span> The line played on repeat in Jon’s mind almost daily, that </span>
  <em>
    <span>why, why, why</span>
  </em>
  <span> eating away at him. He may miss some cheeky implications here and there, and they both may have been sloshed at the time, but that tidbit would be glaringly obvious to anybody. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Why?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Martin deserved better than… whatever Jon was. And he had to know that. So </span>
  <em>
    <span>why?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A recently familiar sensation brushed across and settled on Jon’s fingertips. It was the same unexpected but pleasant sensation he got to experience as he held his shirt up for Martin to clean the wound with warm water, their fingers bumping against each other when he first approached. The same sensation as when he applied a clean bandage as he finished, their fingers brushing past each other as they both worked to apply pressure evenly to allow the adhesive to hold properly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Jon…”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It felt like a lifetime ago that Jon noticed Martin’s hands looked rougher than he might have thought, if he ever had the mind to think of Martin’s hands before that point. But the first-aid experience surprised him with the knowledge that they were softer than he would have expected, far softer than they might have looked from that first glance. And they were warm, in the most pleasant way. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Or that was the best Jon could tell from the fleeting contact, at least. He had yet to really fully explore Martin’s hands. His wrists, his palms, the space in between each finger that could possibly convince one of the existence of a Great Creator simply by how perfectly they were made to interlock with another person’s hand. Were it not for their current location in an environment where others might recognize them, Jon would have half the mind to go on such an exploration now. One finger twitched reflexively as the warmth of longing traveled from his heart into his belly and his hands, making his fingertips tingle. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>And like a miniscule movement snapping a victim of sleep paralysis back into their body and awareness of reality, Jon’s mind catapulted back into his full control along with the reflex.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon pulled his hand back with such a quick and grand gesture that his entire body jumped back, nearly knocking him out of his chair. Half a second later he heard the tell-tale </span>
  <em>
    <span>splash</span>
  </em>
  <span> then </span>
  <em>
    <span>clunk</span>
  </em>
  <span> of a cup of water toppled over, spilling its contents onto a hard floor before rolling off the table to reunite with the liquid. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Everything hushed for a second or two as the other dozen or so people turned to see the source of the racket. Then the crowd unsurprisingly decided that the mundane accident was not worth their time and turned their attention back to their previous conversations.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon looked away from the table for a moment to ensure no one else was paying them any mind. A moment was all he needed to be satisfied. He then turned back to look at Martin and felt his heart hit the floor when he saw his reddened cheeks and pursed lips of true and deep embarrassment.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon almost jumped out of his chair with the effort of cutting Martin off fast enough to stop him from apologizing. No doubt the next words out of his mouth would be wet with near-tears, and Martin crying was not something Jon could handle. Not right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Sor-I’m sorry Martin.” Jon’s mistrust screamed and thrashed and set every nerve in his body aflame. But he was ignoring it, just this once. He was making that choice. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean to react like that. You just startled me. Sorry.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin sniffled. “I-I wasn’t thi-”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon wasn’t going to let even a sneaky unnecessary apology finish being said. He righted his chair then reached forward to close the distance between their hands and replicate the careful grounding touch Martin had done just a moment ago. Light pressure, his first three fingers on Martin’s own, just barely brushing below the second knuckle.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>This was fine</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it said. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I was caught off-guard, but this is fine.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s fine,” Jon reinforced, just in case the implication couldn’t make it through a cloud of embarrassment. “You’re fine.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He waited for some form of acknowledgement. Jon felt the corner of his mouth twitch upwards when Martin nodded silently. A moment later, he took his hand away.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Alright. I’m going to go find some towels.” Jon turned in his seat and began bracing himself to stand. He felt his bad leg tremble then cry in protest, though he managed to keep that pain hidden. Once he pushed himself up further to stand, though, the pain flared into agony, and the small smile that had still been on his face quickly evolved and stretched into a grimace before he had the chance to stop it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey,” came Martin’s voice. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon heard a chair scraping on the ground, followed shortly by the gentle pressure of a hand on his shoulder. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey. Sit-Sit down, okay?” Martin’s other hand rested on top of Jon’s hand gripping his cane. Jon let him use the two points of contact to gently leverage him back into his seat. “Let me get something to wipe this up, okay? I don’t… I don’t want you to slip.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon did not make any move to pull away once he was settled in. “Thanks for looking out for me,” he said. He looked up at Martin, trying not to think too hard about how obvious it was that he was secretly letting the back of his hand explore Martin’s palm. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Soft and warm</span>
  </em>
  <span>, </span>
  <em>
    <span>in the most pleasant way.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Of course,” Martin replied. He showed no other indication of remembering that part of the conversation so long ago. Jon felt a pang of almost-guilt at the thought that he should have accepted that offer when he had the chance. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Martin lingered a moment longer. Two moments. Three. Then finally, “I’ll be right back,” and he pulled his hands away to embark on his journey in search of towels to clean the mess Jon made. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon watched him walk off, trying (and failing) to not think too hard about the increasing feeling of pins and needles at the back of his hand. Like some tiny, preternatural piece of his existence was ripped away, leaving an open wound tingling with static, a potential energy waiting for the reunion of two parts of a whole.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>---</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why did Martin linger? Why was Martin kind? Why did he care, why was he gentle?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why am I sneaking into document storage after everyone else has gone home?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon stood in the doorway of document storage and blankly stared at the empty room. It smelled of dust. The spare cot pushed against one wall was, somehow, visibly unused for some time. The pillows were crooked with wrinkled pillowcases. The flannel blanket was a heap of fabric, half piled on the bed and half dangling off to nearly touch the floor. And next to the bed, the remnant red splotches of old wine stains on the floor. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon’s heart blossomed with warmth at the memory. The best company he had in who even knows how long, and he certainly hadn’t had better company since. There was no ulterior motive there, no dark secrets or hidden lies. Just him and Martin, a little tipsy, laughing when nothing was funny and bonding in the silence. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Why do I want to trust him so much?</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Jon knew the answer to that question. The answer was tangled in the memory of that jovial night, in his continued staring at that wine stain commemorating the occasion. The answer was in the fact that he kept looking for reasons not to trust him. Anyone that was kind to him had to be hiding something, or wanted something from him. What other reason could they possibly have?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yet Jon kept coming up empty-handed every time he tried to dig in to Martin’s motivations. It seemed that the further he dug, the more he just found gold. The back of his hand fizzled with that static energy.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This was a fool’s errand.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As Jon turned to leave document storage, just before he flipped off the light, something caught his eye. Torn paper, crumpled paper, covered in hand writing in a bin near the bed. It’s always been there, he knew that, and he had even wound up his own theories of Martin’s apparent dark intentions based on things he had already pulled out of there. But that creature of distrust poked through the warmth and prodded at his mind to take a look. See if there was anything he had missed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He had never felt a pang of guilt as he did his private investigations these past few weeks. The sensation was unpleasant, and unwelcome. But he pushed through, swallowed his pride, and reached into the bin to pull out a few intact sheets of paper. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was nothing new. Of course there wasn’t. He had already dug through, pulled out everything that could offer even a hint of suspicion, and tossed out the rest again. But sifting through the useless pages dredged up his old motivation. It rose up from his belly like a sharp knife and cut his heart in two, leaving the warmth to spill and bleed out until he was left feeling empty and aching. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He needed to work a little harder to try to look past the mask of innocence and incompetence to see the deep layers of manipulation lying underneath.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>If the others find out I’ve been lying...</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He couldn’t trust Martin. As much as he may have wanted to, he just couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I have never been so excited to write a little series before. If you look at my profile you'll certainly notice that I'm not exactly the most prolific fanfic writer. But this little series of instances throughout the seasons really inspired me, and the heart goes nine was so well received that I was (and still am) absolutely floored. Thanks to everyone for your support! Let me know what you think about this one. I absolutely hope to keep it up for at least five installments (one per season), and I've had part 3 planned for a while and I'm admittedly super excited to write it. Thank you!!!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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